Coming Home
by Stormy1x2
Summary: Bulma is determined to bring a long-lost family member home. Story #3 - Mirai has a few problems they are gonna have to deal with eventually - Vegeta isn't stupid and neither is his mate. But figuring out a solution is gonna give him a migraine, he just knows it.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Coming Home

**Author: **Stormy1x2

**Word Count:** 9700

**Summary: **Bulma is determined to bring a long-lost family member home. Come hell, high water, or Vegeta himself, she is going to get what she wants.

* * *

**Coming Home**

* * *

The air was still.

Had there been any animals left to run free in the remains of what used to be the prosperous Satan City, they would have frozen in place, noses in the air, and senses twitching. Something was coming. It wasn't in the distance, or in any direction someone could have looked. North, South, East, West – a person could have spun in a circle and not see anything in a 360 degree radius.

That's because when looking for something, people rarely ever look up.

A whispy, tinkling sound, like glass chimes being pushed by the breeze, though there were no wind chimes of any sort in the vicinity. The atmosphere shimmered; oxygen dispersed as though a void had opened in midair, and then something flickered. Once, twice, and then it appeared, solid and heavy and filling the void that had existed for a microsecond.

It was a strange craft of some sort – vaguely resembling a large glass egg set into a spider-shaped, multi-limbed yellow base. The legs of the craft spat out smoke and flame as its engines chugged, creating a loud sound in what had been near silence. The engines began to wind down, their droning slowing and ultimately lowering the craft to the ground with a very light thump. The legs were pointed and they slid easily into the loose, dry soil, stopping about a foot deep. Steam vented from two panels, one on each side of the metallic base, and then hydraulics hissed as the glass dome unlatched and began to lift up.

Inside were two people. A male, short, black pointed hair and a bitter scowl, and a slender female with blue hair and an excited smile. The man exited the craft first but not by climbing down the small staircase that would have unfurled had he pressed the button for it. No, this man simply lifted himself into the air, as easily as one would intake a breath, and hovered there as though an invisible platform was there for him to stand solidly on; reaching one hand back to his companion who reached up and grabbed hold. The man pulled her out of the craft and then flew backwards a few feet before lowering her. He let go when she was a foot off the ground and she stumbled at the impact, sitting down abruptly. Her blue eyes narrowed up at the other, and she opened her mouth.

"What the hell, Vegeta?" she growled, eyes flashing in anger. "Could you not have just lowered me all the way? Dropping me? Seriously?"

Her husband smirked down at her, teeth bared. "If you had any natural grace and balance at all, you would not have fallen. Such weakness is intolerable."

"I'll show you intolerable," she grumbled, getting to her feet. "Let's see how intolerable you find life when I program the Gravity Room to play 'It's a Small World' while locking you in there."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me, buddy," she snapped, shaking her fist at him. She smoothed down her layered tank top and brushed off her jeans. "I made that thing, and I can remake it any way I want – up to and including preventing you from changing it past 10x gravity. How far do you'll think you'll advance then?"

Her husband contemplated that for a moment and then nodded his head. "I withdraw my comment."

"Damn right you do." Bulma Briefs straightened fully and glanced around. It wasn't a pretty picture. Everything was broken and destroyed compared to the place she had just come from – which was twenty years in the past. In a lifetime of extraordinary sights and accomplishments, this was one of the most unusual. She and her husband, the Prince of the now-extinct warrior race known as Saiyajins, had traveled to this time line in search of someone very important.

Their son.

Bulma took in the scenery around her and was reminded that true time travel did not actually exist. Did her son actually travel back in the past and change history? No. Not for him. He had changed her history, her friends, his father – everyone but himself. It astonished Bulma just how long it had taken for her to truly comprehend that fact. He had not changed the past. He had created a new one, one that would benefit every single person in the time line – and one that had no effect on his own. A gift, the most generous gift anyone could ever make for anyone, anytime. Her son, the saviour of an entire world, an entirely new dimension. Her son – destined to never reap the benefits of his gift.

Every decision one made, every choice, left a road untraveled, a path not taken. It created millions and millions of 'what if' scenarios each and every day of life. Many of these choices changed very little in the overall scheme of things. But Trunks had gone back far enough to evoke a huge change, and had created an entirely new time line – a separate dimension where the horrors of his world hadn't happened.

Goku didn't die of a heart virus. Trunks had healed him with medicine. Trunks had also killed Frieza and King Cold in a startling display of power that had shown Vegeta that true Saiyajin power was within his reach and had changed the Saiyajin Prince's destiny. The Androids were destroyed (save for 18 who married Krillen and Vegeta had remarked that was a death in itself) and the world had never been reduced to rubble.

But Trunks's world remained unchanged. He had gained enough experience and power in the past that he was able to destroy the Androids of his time, but ultimately nothing had changed. The world was still left in ruin, the population of billions down to a few hundred-thousand world wide, and dropping steadily every day from starvation, illness and injury. Volcanoes were erupting with regularity after the Androids had fired ki blasts into the magma, trying to trigger chain reactions. Entire island chains had been completely eradicated, the face of the very continents themselves warped and damaged.

Bulma had in her hand a small tablet. It was a scanner of sorts, designed by her and partially wished into existence with the help of Shenlong, the mighty Earth dragon. While life had continued to progress normally for her and her family in their saved and preserved time line, her thoughts had turned to her son trapped in the other dimension. The scanner was for the time line itself. Shenlong had connected its systems to the very fabric of space and time itself, and she was able to see exactly what damage had been wrought.

Atmospheric pollution in levels she'd never even heard of. Acid rain. Earthquakes breaking up entire continents. Constant volcanic eruptions. Dead soil, tainted water. Nothing was left clean or pure, nothing was growing. The Androids had systematically ravaged and destroyed the entire earth as a form of entertainment for their own amusement. Her son was trapped on a dying planet. And with that thought had come a forceful denial coupled with a determination to rectify the situation.

The idea was to find her older counterpart and convince her and her son – their son – to return to the true time line. There was almost nothing left here, and the tremors rippling deep underground ensured that soon – maybe a year, maybe two – the world itself would crumble apart and explode out into the galaxy. Was it fair to condemn the few scraps of humanity while saving her own kin? Perhaps. But Bulma couldn't save everybody, and barring that, she was determined to save her own son.

That was what she was thinking as she rounded the corner of the damaged Capsule Corp building and stopped short in front of what looked like a tilled garden patch, extending across what was the menagerie dome back home but apparently didn't exist here. Rounded stones jutted out of the earth in equal intervals. Small bushes, leaves grown brown in death, and withered flowers dotted the area, and she could see well-trampled footpaths dividing the ground into plots. Recognition hit her with the force of a freight train, and her mouth formed a small 'o' as she realized she was looking at the graveyard of Earth's Special Forces.

She took a step forward, then another, until she was close enough to the largest stone at the front of the patch. Her eyes skimmed over all of the markers – this large one was likely the newest. The others were chipped and dusty, some starting to tilt over. This one though was large and clean, a shiny slab of granite with carvings all over it. She crouched down to read the name etched into it:

**_Bulma Briefs_**

_841 - 892_

_Beloved wife and mother_

_Leader, teacher, fighter._

_Hero._

In the back of her mind, Bulma knew that she had been partially expecting this. She knew that the other time line was a terrible, horrible place and that Trunks knew death as intimately as she knew mathematical formulas. She knew the possibility of her counterpart being alive was a tenuous, ephemeral thing.

She had hoped, though.

Bulma forced herself to look away from the stone cutting that bore her name. The rest of the markers in that small plot gave her the shivers as much as her own did – she didn't need to go and read the names to know she'd find all of her friends among them. She reminded herself that her time line still had everyone alive, and that this was just a nightmare that would end very soon. Well. As soon as they found their son.

"So then where is he, Vegeta?" she asked, rubbing her arms through her thin jacket and wishing she had thought to bring a thicker sweater. "Can't you sense him?"

Vegeta sent her a glare – a rather weak one by her standards; this place must have unnerved him as well – and then looked away, out towards the remains of what used to be Satan City. Bulma was used to seeing buildings everywhere, soaring skyscrapers surrounded by Capsule Domes, and everywhere, the tiny, zigzagging dots of hover cars intent on reaching their destinations. This skyline was considerably different.

There were no buildings. Not a single intact structure – crushed and fallen shells of what used to be offices and housing units lay scattered like a child's Lego set. Heaps of debris, broken brick and mortar dust, burnt and flattened cars – leftovers from a life that was, strewn about with no pattern to them. Black smoke billowed up from a dozen locations in the distance, likely from fires that had been burning endlessly since the Androids first attacked the year before. The sky was one giant, roiling cloud of noxious gases and fumes. Instead of fluffy white puffs, it was a solid mass the color of nicotine-stained teeth – a sickening yellow deepening to browns and blacks. The air smelled of decomposition, heavy and greasy in the nose and on the tongue. Bulma shuddered again.

"There," her husband spoke suddenly. Bulma blinked and turned to face him. He was hovering only a few feet in the air, but he was staring across a corner of the city, towards the mountains that separated Satan City from its neighbor, Celery Town. "He's that way."

"Celery Town?" Bulma guessed, stepping closer to him. His ki field naturally put out a lot of heat and she could desperately use some of it right now. She was surprised when he lowered himself to the ground and allowed her to wrap an arm around his waist. She was even more surprised when he returned the gesture. "Vegeta?"

"Further then that," Vegeta growled, scowling into the distance; squinting, as though he felt he should be able to see Trunks from their location. "His ki was maintaining at a high level, but it was kinetic – moving. Lots of small fluctuations or variations but level. Just now it spiked – only for a moment or two. Then it dropped."

"Dropped as in he went back to normal, or dropped as in..." Bulma didn't want to finish her sentence. She couldn't finish it.

But Vegeta shook his head. "He's alive," he stated and began to lift them both into the air. "Weakened from what I remember of his normal resting state, but alive."

Bulma nodded, squeezing her eyes shut as her husband angled forward and began to pick up speed. Wind whistled past her ears, and she rummaged with her free hand in her pocket until she found her sunglasses. Slipping them on, she was able to open her eyes for the flight over, delicate human organs protected by the titanium and glass shades she'd brought with her by accident. Looking down as they flew, she was struck by how much worse the destruction looked like from above. It looked like the play village of some giant toddler; one that had picked up the landscape and shook it violently before stomping a path across it, smashing everything within range and beyond.

She forced herself to look at it all. Her son had lived in this horrendous Hell of a world his entire life. If she was going to help him adjust to a peaceful life if (when) they convinced him to return with them, she would need to know where he was coming from. Hiding her eyes would be a weakness, and Bulma Briefs was anything but weak.

Having grown up in the spotlight of her dad's amazing achievements, and then being thrust into fame on her own recognition and talent, Bulma had faced down lawyers, multimillion dollar lawsuits, saboteurs, and even assassins. As a friend of Goku and later, the girlfriend of Yamchua, she had seen demons, aliens and monsters. She'd flown through space, she'd commanded dragons, she'd been killed and resurrected, and she'd mouthed off to one of the universes strongest and most psychotic villains – before making him her husband. She could and would learn what she could of this horrific place, if only to help understand her son. She nodded absently, resolve firming as she took in the destruction around her, shutting off her emotions, and studying the ground beneath them with an almost clinical detachment.

A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. Vegeta was watching her, no doubt figuring out what she was up to. She didn't acknowledge his notice and was rewarded with a tiny smirk that she could tell was full of pride for her. Her heart beat faster, and she squeezed Vegeta's waist slightly. Vegeta's eyes slammed back forward, and she smiled inwardly, just a little bit, before she went back to the grisly task of cataloging the wreckage.

_It's like a third world, war-torn country_, she thought. _Except with ki bombs instead of nuclear._

Then she noticed something. "Where are the bodies?" she asked quietly. There was no need for her to yell, even with the wind screaming past them. She knew Vegeta could hear her perfectly.

Vegeta didn't answer her. He gave her a sharp look, one that seemed almost troubled, before shaking his head and looking forward again. He was wondering the same thing, she realized. Her eyes narrowed. And he has an idea about it. But he wasn't completely sure, which was why he was saying nothing. He likely wanted to know for sure before he voiced any speculations.

Bulma watched the burning forests that had once blanketed the mountains in lush greenery pass beneath her and mentally crossed her fingers, hoping that Trunks was okay.

Celery Town came and went beneath them. Vegeta, by intent or by accident, was following the twisted and burnt stretch of concrete below that had once been a highway. Webbed cracks snaked out from hundreds of impact craters, as though someone had been taking potshots at the cars from above, which was most likely what had happened. Cars were crashed together in heaps, or lay where they had been flung to the roadside in crumpled piles of metal. Faded, rust-colored stains blotted the pavement – Bulma knew instinctively it was blood and fought back a sudden urge to vomit. But beyond the blood stains, there again were no bodies to accompany them. Not even animal carcasses. Nothing at all.

Vegeta grunted and sped up, as if in answer to her thoughts, her unspoken plea to get to her future son. The wrecked highway soon gave way to a long bridge that had simply collapsed in the middle. Enough cars had fallen through the chasm that they had filled the river below – the pile of automobiles rose out of the water like a morbid metal island. Everything... they simply destroyed absolutely everything.

Bulma's eyes were stinging but she resolutely held back her tears. There would be time enough for that later.

"He's here," Vegeta murmured, scanning the ground suddenly.

Bulma looked down at the remains of West City. Vegeta angled downward and the detail became clearer. The ruined remnants of the sleepy hamlet made her suck in a gasp of horror.

To her left, the roads and broken buildings looked like everything else they'd seen up to that point. But to the right... Now she could see the bodies. _Oh my god_.

They were everywhere. Hanging out of broken windows, dried blood trails leaking down the sides of the walls. Crushed under debris, body parts strewn everywhere. Skeletal corpses lying out in the open, mummified remains trapped in car wrecks. Men, women, children, babies. The Androids had not discriminated in their methodical assassination of every living creature. Bulma saw a tiny hand peeking out of a pile of bricks as they made their descent and she shut her eyes, breathing heavily.

Her husband landed and she would have stumbled had his grip on her not been like iron. She coughed in the silence, the stench of a million dead people assaulting her nose. A terrible droning sound caught her ears and she realized dumbly that it was from billions of flies, feeding off what was left of the population. Swallowing hard, she changed her grip from Vegeta's waist to his hand, and it was proof of how stunned he was that he allowed her to. "Where," she whispered harshly, squeezing his fingers. "...is Trunks?"

In response, Vegeta moved forward, tracking their son's ki. There was a slight rise in front of them, a tiny hill in the park they were in, and she realized her husband must have landed just beyond Trunks' vision. Vegeta pulled her gently but firmly and she stumbled a bit in the gravel and shrapnel that covered the grass. Up the hill, silently, skirting the fallen, splintered trees that tried to bar their path, and then they crested the top. The breath left her lungs as she saw a single living person about two hundred or so meters away. The purple hair was distinctive in the flickering light that tried to push through the dirty clouds.

Her son stood there, his back to them, his arms raised in front of him. There was a glow around his hands, and then suddenly, a mirroring glow began to grow in the housing suburb beyond him. Bulma had no idea what was going on until she noticed something moving in the snarled streets.

Vegeta muttered savagely under his breath. He must be able to see it, she thought, frustrated with her human eyes that couldn't possible compete with a Saiyajins, She strained her eyes, peering into the twilight gloom that was starting to settle over the city – and suddenly froze in place, throat closing in shock.

Bodies. Trunks was lifting bodies. Somehow, he was telekinetically raising hundreds of bodies at once. Bulma had no idea how he was doing that, and from the dumbstruck, drop-jawed gaping of her husband, she concluded that he had no idea either. Bulma reminded herself to breathe.

Men and women, mummified, skeletal or otherwise, decomposing parts, random limbs – everything biological was being slowly lifted into the air. Trunks brought his arms together slowly and floating corpses began to gather in the air like the worlds most gory and grisly balloons. For the first time in a long time, Bulma was speechless. She tore her gaze away from the gruesome skies and focused back on her son – who had raised his right hand, slightly higher than the other

Another glow, brighter this time, began to form around his hand. Then Trunks fired a laser-like bolt of white-hot energy at the floating forms of the dead. The light tore through them like a hot knife through butter, vaporizing them instantly. They were so thoroughly burned through that absolutely nothing fell to the ground when Trunks was finished. They were just simply... gone.

That's why there were no bodies in Satan City or Celery Town, Bulma thought numbly. Trunks was cremating them.

One part of her mind was nodding at the action, acknowledging it as a much-needed cleansing to prevent wide-spread contamination and sickness. The other part of her was wondering who it was for. _It's like it's just Trunks left around here for miles. _Her son was slowly, oh so slowly cleaning up the world on his own. And for what – the survivors? _Are there even any?_ Bulma thought wildly.

Suddenly Trunks's spine stiffened. He very slowly began to turn. Bulma wanted to call out to him but she couldn't – her words were trapped in her throat. She could barely breathe. Trunks's eyes lifted from the ground, traveling upwards painfully slowly, as though he were trying to stop himself from doing it at all. Then his eyes fixed on hers and Bulma felt the world around her slowly come to a halt.

Her son – her son – looked dead. His expression was blank as he searched her figure, trying to determine whether or not she was real or a cruel trick played by his mind. His cheekbones stood out in stark relief, his overall form much leaner and less muscular then she remembered from the last time they'd seen him, waving from his Time Machine as he left their time line.

His eyes tracked left and she knew he was now studying her husband, his father, trying to figure out if what he was seeing was reality. Her husband suddenly glowered and powered up – a wave of energy flowed out in a rumbling torrent across the scorched earth until it hit Trunks – and his eyes widened. Bulma knew the second his fathers ki field touched his own, he knew for certain they were real, they were really there, and that realization was enough to shock the last vestiges of energy from his own system. She watched, breathless as Trunks slowly fell to his knees. A whisper of wind and then her husband was next to him, one hand gripping the young man's shoulder, preventing him from falling further. Trunks couldn't move, probably couldn't breathe – and the urge to give comfort, to touch her son and prove to him she wasn't a ghost come to haunt him finally broke through Bulma's paralysis. With a sob, she forced her feet to move, one after the other, faster and faster, until she was sprinting towards her family, heedless of the debris all around her.

Her legs gave out as she drew near; she fell to her knees in the mud in front of him, reaching for his threadbare jacket and yanking him towards herself. She locked her arms around his neck, gripping as tightly as she could, knowing she, a mere human, could never harm him with her feeble strength. She murmured his name, over and over, calling him back from the horrible place his mind seemed to have gone to, and she cried for real when she felt shaking arms reach up and return the embrace. His breath hitched out in a choked sob and she finally, finally heard his voice: "Mother."

* * *

Bulma moved around the underground lab fairly easily. It may have been older and differently arranged then the one she was familiar with in her own time, but she knew how her future-counterpart would have put things, and she crowed triumphantly when she found some battered but clean tea cups in the cupboard marked 'beakers'. She filled the elderly tea kettle with water and turned it on. Nothing to do but wait. She turned her gaze across the vast expanse of the lab to the far corner where her husband was meditating. Against the wall was an ancient medical stretcher covered with blankets and pillows – Trunks had apparently been living in the lab instead of the main house.

Trunks was deeply asleep on top of the stretcher, brought down by the shock of seeing them, the stress of what he'd been doing and pure exhaustion. He had collapsed in her arms, and her husband, mumbling and growling the entire time, had obeyed his wife's orders to carry both of them back to Capsule Corp. She walked over quietly until she stood over him, reaching down with one hand to brush a few strands of purple hair off his face. He didn't move.

"Is he okay?" she asked slowly, giving Vegeta a quick look. It was not the first time she'd asked. She was completely unapologetic about it.

Vegeta scowled and opened his eyes. "I said he was fine, didn't I? Or are you going deaf?" His eyes slid shut again, determined to ignore her.

Bulma calmly picked up a textbook from a small table. It was old and worn and weight about twenty pounds. A quick heft of it, and then she hurled it at her husbands head. It connected, and Vegeta's eyes snapped open in a rage. "What the fucking hell, woman?"

"You don't need to be rude," she snapped back, and held out her hand. "Give that back."

Vegeta picked up the book in one hand. It began to glow.

She pointed at him. "You destroy that book and you will be sleeping in the Gravity room for a MONTH." The glow disappeared and Vegeta cursed at her. Bulma let the words wash over her until they ran down, and held her hand out again. This time he tossed it at her. She fumbled with it for a moment and then placed it back on the table. "Thank you."

He didn't answer her, not that she was expecting him to. She rolled her eyes and then pressed the back of her hand to Trunks's forehead. It was warm, but that didn't necessarily mean he had a fever. From dealing with Goku, she had learned many basic things about Saiyajin physiology as compared to a human, and raising little Trunks had given her more experience still.

For one thing, Saiyajins naturally ran much hotter. A temperature of 102 degrees wasn't a fever – it was a resting state. The first time her little boy had been sick, she had been speechless with fear when the thermometer had read just a hair over 106 until Vegeta said that was low for his race. Fever's weren't high unless they spiked to 108 at a minimum. She guessed Trunks was roughly at 104. Her thumb brushed gently in the deeply bruised, purple hollows under his eyes.

She knew Vegeta was watching her. Her husband was never going to be the touchy-feely sort who actively shared his emotions; actually, he'd more likely criticize Trunks for being so weak as to pass out in front of him. It was his way of showing concern, she knew – Bulma had become very good at reading his true thoughts underneath the grouchy, arrogance that was Vegeta's personal shield against the world. But that was not what Trunks needed at that moment, and she had told him in no uncertain terms before they'd even arrived in this time line that he was to let her handle the emotional part and he was to refrain from saying anything that would make things worse. She trusted him to do that. Even now, his one eye was open and it was fixed on her actions with her son; she knew if anything threatened the two of them he would be between it and them before she could blink, and the threat would be terminated with extreme prejudice. That was something she didn't ever have to wonder or worry about.

A small sound broke through her thoughts; she looked back down at her son and saw his eyes open, fixed on her. She smiled and reached down, perhaps to touch his cheek or push that one strand of hair back behind his ears – she'd never know. Her son's hand came up so quickly she never even saw it move, and had her wrist trapped in an immoveable grip. It didn't hurt, she realized, stunned, but she was rendered completely immobile by that simple hold. "T-Trunks?"

He stared at her, eyes blank, narrowed. Then she saw them shimmer, a twinge of emotion seeping through the cracks of his defenses. _He thinks he's dreaming,_ she realized._ Or that I'm not real. _With that thought in mind, she took a deep breath, forced herself to relax, and then smiled softly at the traumatized teen. "It's me, Trunks." His eyes narrowed further, and she shook her head gently. "Well, not quite. I'm a blast from your past." He blinked; she reprimanded herself at the levity of her words and tried again. "Look at me. You saved me and your baby self once. Remember? Look at me, sweetheart."

He did, and she saw the moment he recognized her. The lack of wrinkles and grey hairs, the youthful flush of her skin, and probably a dozen other giveaways that she wasn't even sure she had but he would be sure to know. Recognition suddenly slammed into him and just like that, her arm was free and he was sitting up, backed against the wall, holding the errant hand away from his own body.

She wanted to move closer to him but she also had no desire to get punched in the face by accident if she managed to trigger him again. She swiveled her head around and leveled a flat glare at her husband who was still meditating and completely ignoring the two of them. "Aren't you a big help."

"Mom?" It was so soft, a mere whisper, but she turned back and Trunks was leaning forward ever so slightly, staring at her with the same intensity a starving dog would give a huge slab of juicy tenderloin. "You're... you're really here?" His voice was raspy, likely from disuse, his dry mouth stumbling over the syllables. His lips were chapped and cracked, and as he spoke, the skin split along a tiny seam at the corner, spilling a small amount of bright red blood.

"Of course I am, baby boy," she said, keeping her tone soft and level. "We both are."

She watched as Trunks's eyes darted for a second towards Vegeta, but then almost instantly returned to her. His breath was starting to come in shallow pants, and he was biting his lip, the inside of his cheek, likely trying to keep himself from flying apart. That, or he was trying to wake himself up. He worked his jaw, soundlessly, as though he had forgotten how to speak. "You...how..." And then finally, "...why?"

"We've come to bring you home, kiddo." Bulma reached out with one hand again, slowly, telegraphing her every move. His eyes zeroed in on her hand until it reached his – not the one he'd gripped, but the other one that had a grip of its own on the blanket she'd spread over him earlier. His fingers were white, bloodless from the strain he was inflicting on them. She ran her hand over his once, twice – and then he let go of the stretched out fabric so she could slide her fingers against his and give a gentle squeeze. He immediately returned the gesture and she could only imagine the level of control it took for him to not grind her bones to powder as he did.

Tremors were starting to work their way through him, his hands starting to shake violently, and she leaned forward to grip his t-shirt and pull him to her. He went willingly, unresisting; she let go of his hand to slide her fingers into the short purple hair he'd been blessed with thanks to the oddities of Briefs genetics, rubbing the back of his neck in gentle circles. His forehead rested against her shoulder and she slowly wrapped her arms around him, trying to cocoon him in her embrace. Shaky hands tried to return the gesture, clenched fists pressed against her shoulder blades, and then Trunks began shaking in earnest.

She could feel no tears, no wet warmth where his face was pressed, and she knew if she pulled back to look, his eyes would be dry. She had read enough psychology books in an effort to prepare for this trip – there were so many factors involved, so many reasons why Trunks might not be able to shed tears at this moment. The only wetness was from the still-drying blood at the corner of his mouth. It was enough though, that he could still feel. She had been worried about that.

Bulma turned her head slightly, just enough to press a kiss to the side his head before turning the other way to see her husband watching them. He nodded – just once. Then he stood up, silently, and walked towards the staircase that led outside. A quick raise in his ki level and he vanished out the hatch-style door into the twilight outside. She didn't blame him for leaving. Trunks needed this, to let go for a moment, and Vegeta had his own childhood traumas that wouldn't let him do the same, or allow Trunks to show that weakness to him. They would work things out in other ways, she knew that for a fact. Until then, he would allow his mate to comfort their child how she wanted to, how he needed. That would be enough for now.

It took nearly ten minutes before Trunks's hands loosened, just a tad, and she pulled back just enough to try and see his face. He kept his gaze downcast, and she moved her left arm back so she could tilt his chin up. He stared at her, dazed. "Mom."

"That's my name," she said lightly, right hand still touching the back of his neck. The tea kettle's piercing whistle had finally penetrated and she moved slowly back, standing up. "I'm going to get you a cup of tea. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

He nodded slowly, still looking confused. But his gaze sharpened as she moved and his fingers reached out like a striking snake, latching onto the crease in her jeans at the knee. She stopped and waited, letting him decide for himself to let go. When he did, she smiled and reached down to pat his hand again. "One minute, I promise. You can watch."

He didn't answer but she could feel his eyes drilling into her spine as she moved to the other side of the lab and poured the hot water into the tea cups she'd found. She remembered Trunks telling them, up on Kami's lookout, how he and his mom shared a cup of tea at the end of every day. Sometimes it was to talk, sometimes to share information, and sometimes they would both be silent, taking tiny sips and trying to keep the ritual lasting as long as they could. It was their way of reassuring each other that they were still there. Bulma was hoping this would help, rather then harm him, in the future.

There was no sugar, no cream, and the tea bags were probably over a year old. The tea itself tasted like dirty water compared to the expensive brews she was accustomed to, but Trunks eagerly took the cup from her when she returned and took the first sip. As he did, his hands began to shake again and Bulma narrowly rescued the tea cup from slipping out of his fingers, taking it and setting it on the small work bench she'd dragged over to use as a table. He could reach it if he wanted it but she hoped he'd settle down first. She planned on, among other things, taking the tea cups with them, so he'd have something from his mother with him. It wouldn't do to have them break. She would do it if she had to, but she really didn't want to have to piece together a thousand shards of shattered porcelain.

After a few more moments of silent sipping (on her part) and fabric twisting (on his), their eyes met again and Trunks finally managed to pull together the beginnings of a tremulous smile. "What's going on?" he asked, quietly, folding his hands over his lap and looking at her like a student who'd been caught not paying attention and was going to rectify his mistake. His spine had straightened, ever so slightly, and the shimmer in his eyes gave way to a soldier's determination. Mission ready. Such a natural response from a boy who technically was just barely old enough to enlist, yet had more experience than a platoon of combat veterans.

Bulma set her tea cup down and gazed at her son. "We've come to bring you home," she said simply, watching closely to see his reaction.

Confusion. That would be the first thing she saw in his eyes. "I am home," he replied, the confusion showing through his tone as well. His eyes darted back and forth, focusing on her right eye, and then her left and back again, unsure of where to look.

She nodded. "We're taking you to our home," she clarified. "There's nothing keeping you here, is there?"

Trunks blinked at her owlishly. "Huh?"

She would have laughed, except she knew Trunks's confusion was stemming from sleep deprivation, mental trauma, lack of companionship, unbearable grief, and _most likely,_ she added, observing his leaner figure, _partial starvation_. Her boy was running on fumes, a robot about to shut down, an athlete on his last legs. Laughing was the last thing she should be contemplating.

Then his eyes cleared a bit. "I can't leave," he stated.

"Why not?" she asked calmly.

"This is my home."

His eyes were just far too expressive, she thought. Every emotion the young man felt was clearly visible in his face and eyes. Anger, sadness, confusion, heartache, horror, grief and the last one – guilt. They marched across his face in an ever-changing parade of feelings. "You don't need to stay here anymore." She contemplated her next words carefully, making an educated guess. "This is not a punishment designed just for you."

His eyes widened to an impossible degree and his face went so white so fast she was half-inclined to look under the bed to see who had pulled his biological plug. "I-"

"You've done all you can here, Trunks," she said, slowly, inexorably. "You've done more than anyone could ever ask. But there's nothing more you can do. It's time to let it go."

Trunks shook his head. "No," he breathed. "I'm not done yet." He pleaded with his eyes, begging her silently for permission to continue his one-man crusade to cleanse the planet of the reminders of what had happened to it. She could read his plea so plainly, written in every nuance of his expression.

Bulma took a deep breath. It was time to tell him the truth. "There are no living biological creatures within a one hundred mile radius," she said, softly but bluntly. "And beyond that range, if there are any humans alive in this country, their signatures are too weak for even your father to sense them. Nothing will grow on this planet for at least ten years or so – the volcanic ash that's mixing with the clouds and creating acid showers will see to that. But even if you manage to hold out with little to no food, you'd die anyway from the explosion."

Trunks tilted his head.

"You can feel it, Trunks," she whispered. "I know you can. Your father told me it's so distinctive it's unmistakeable. Those tremors beneath our feet – the little earthquakes deep inside the earth. Do you feel them?" He nodded, so slightly she almost missed it. His eyes burned like lasers into hers, taking in her every word. She steeled herself for the final blow. "This world will be lucky if it lasts one year – maybe two, before it blows itself apart."

She watched him for his reaction, and was stunned when he merely nodded, waiting for her to continue. _Did he understand what __I__ said?_ she thought, trying to analyze the expression she was seeing from him. _Did he grasp the_-

Of course he did.

It hit her like a bolt of lightning, and a feral growl ripped through the laboratory. She was mildly surprised to realize it was coming from herself. Biting it back was an effort that took a few precious minutes but she wrestled her anger under control. Mostly. She leaned forward, very carefully and put her face directly in front of her future son's. "I will not allow you to kill yourself," she hissed, and was gratified to see him swallow hard in response. She'd been right. But he was listening to her and she would make it very clear to him what was going to happen. "Of the two of us here, you technically knew your mother best. But she was me, and I know that there is no world in which I would ever give you permission to kill yourself." She poked a finger against his chest; he flinched even though it couldn't possibly have hurt. "No matter where in time you are or I am, my first goal would and will always be your safety. I would happily trade my life to spare yours. That's what mothers do. It's what we are made for." Tears were starting to form in the corners of his eyes. They weren't flowing like hers suddenly were, but they were there. Bulma pushed on. "She would want you to live. I want you to live. You deserve to live. And you will, so help me Kami. Do you understand me?"

He gave a very faint nod, still focused on her intent gaze. She searched his eyes for a moment, checking for sincerity, or even a hint of rebellion, and saw instead resignation. She'd take it. Blinking back even more tears, she rubbed the back of her wrist across her eyes to mop off the worst of the water leakage before slumping back with a sigh, hand fumbling for her tea cup. It was out of reach. Before she could sit up properly to get it, Trunks had already picked it up and presented it to her, eyes lowered. Baffled, she took it with a murmur of thanks, and then almost spit the tea out when she saw him raise his head with a small but stronger smile than he'd shown before. "Trunks?"

"Thank you, mother," he said softly. His eyes were still shadowed, and likely would be for quite some time, but the smile was still there and growing in intensity. "I would be honored – and very happy – to go back with you."

Bulma blinked, a wee bit stupefied, and then smiled back in relief. "Well, that was easy."

Trunks gave a half-sniffle, half-chuckle, looking down as he did so. He seemed to be having trouble meeting her gaze – whether it was because she reminded him of too much of his own mother, or it was because she didn't, Bulma wasn't sure, but it was something to work on. She leaned forward again and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. "Stay here," she said. "You're exhausted, and I am going to go talk to your father for a moment."

He nodded and watched silently as she stood up and turned around. Bulma strode to the staircase that led outdoors and climbed it quickly. Her nose wrinkled; the air inside the lab had been stale, but it had smelled better than the air outside. She crossed the yard in a few steps and then turned to peer up at the roof of the Capsule Corp main dome, one hand shading her eyes from the light of the setting sun. Vegeta's motionless form hovered in mid-air over the building, facing the opposite direction. Whether he was just watching the acid clouds gather, or was trying to find life nearby after all, she couldn't tell. She called out to him anyway. "Vegeta!"

He ignored her until her voice crackled with anger on the third call, and then he turned and lowered himself to the ground in front of her. When he spoke, his tone was flat and very dry. "What do you want now?"

The urge to stick her tongue out at him was strong, but she held back. "He's coming with us," she informed him.

Her husband looked unimpressed. "I was under the impression that was the case before we even arrived in this hellhole."

He was smirking, therefore he was amused. Bulma bit back a sarcastic retort and instead pasted the most sickeningly sweet smile she was able to devise and beamed it at him. As planned, he squirmed, slightly, and started scowling instead. Bulma pointed at him. "He's agreed to join us. I need to help him gather a few things to take along. I need you to do what you promised you would."

Vegeta hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. Bulma didn't blame him for being uncomfortable. But only he could do what she asked. He held out his hand and she dropped the specialized capsule in his hand. She had brought two but apparently only one was necessary. He stared at it, before looking at her with a frown. "The parameters you spoke of..."

"I calculated for triple the size," she said calmly. "Just in case. Press the 'expand' button until the grid covers the area required." He nodded. Bulma paused, and then hugged him, hard and fast. He didn't raise his arms in response, but nor did he push her away. "Thank you."

"Get him moving," Vegeta barked. "We leave in five minutes."

"Five, ten, fifteen, something like that," she snarked at him and then whirled around, heading for the stairs to the underground lab.

Packing up her son's life was a depressingly short task. Trunks ran his hands over the last of the lab equipment – the giant generators and the incubators that Bulma had assured him she had in large quantities, and instead gathered the smaller tool kits and utensils his mother had used for her intricate wiring and soldering work. Everything had its own special case, which he then piled up by the stairs, to be encapsulated before they left. Trunks even packed the blanket from the bed, and his mother's old textbooks. Bulma had been about to tell him to leave them – she had copies – when she flipped one over in a fit of nostalgic curiosity and saw that her older counterpart had given them toTrunks, complete with special notes and letters on the pages. She zipped up at that point, and instead grabbed a few more to pile up for the capsule process.

An extra jacket, his mother's tea cups, a small teddy bear that made Trunks blush when she saw it, and a few mechanical odds and ends that Trunks admitted had been projects they'd worked on together. "She tried to teach me a part of her world when Gohan was done showing me his for the day", was all he'd say about them, and she merely nodded and added them to the pile.

Bulma watched Trunks take a final look around before gazing up at where she perched on the stairs leading to the outside. He smiled, and she returned it, pulling out her capsule. The tiny, pill-shaped containers were the creation of her father, and what had established her family as both the inventors of the century, and – once they'd hit the commercial market – the wealthiest family in the world. The pills were designed for certain ranges – height-wise, length, depth, circumference, what have you – and when activated, they converted the target into a form of compressed energy that was easily contained. Cars, boats, airplanes – entire homes could be contained in the oval shaped pills and transported with no more difficulty than one might have in carrying a pair of glasses from one point to the next. For this particular adventure, she'd packed a few of the regular capsules and two of a specially designed model that Vegeta was using outside. Bulma shuddered for a moment, and then pushed it aside. She pulled out the capsule she'd intended for Trunks's belongings.

Bulma set the range, pressed the top, and tossed it at the pile. With a loud *POOF*, the entire grid was converted to energy and trapped inside the pill-sized capsule. Trunks crouched down and picked it up, turning it over in his hands once before storing it safely in his jacket pocket. "Are we ready to go?" she asked softly. He didn't answer right away, but that wasn't unexpected.

She truly didn't want to rush him, but time flowed on in their own time line – the time spent here was equivalent to the time passing back home, which meant her younger son – Trunks's mini-me, as she'd been thinking in her head – had been left with his grandparents for almost three hours, which meant something was probably on fire. If Goten had come over, despite her expressly forbidding visitors (which meant, yeah, he was probably there), then not only was something on fire, but one or more of the compound structures were likely to need rebuilding, and her lawyer that she kept on retainer would likely be needed to handle any injuries incurred by the Capsule Corp staff (which technically was a formality – those hired to work for Capsule Corp knew what they were getting themselves into in exchange for publishing rights and huge salaries). It was nothing she couldn't and actually was accustomed to handling on a daily basis, but there was no need for tempting fate.

Trunks stood next to her, head down for a moment. She waited patiently, and was rewarded as he leaned against her, only letting a fraction of his weight press down, just enough to show he was there, giving silent thanks – before he straightened and motioned to the stairs. Bulma grabbed his arm as he went to go up them, and swallowed. He needed to know something before he went out there and saw what his father was doing.

Trunks was watching her with confusion, but patient enough to let her get to it on her own time. She smiled – Kami only knew which side of the family that kind of placidity came from, it certainly wasn't from her _or_ his father – and pulled out another capsule, grey in color and much bigger than the one she'd used for his things. Trunks watched her palm it in her hand for a moment before sending her a questioning look. She plucked it up between two fingers and held it up for him to see clearly. "This is a special capsule," she said slowly. "I brought two of them, but thanks to certain circumstances, we only need the one. Your father has it."

"What's it for?" Trunks asked, eying the capsule with a small amount of growing scientific interest. Now that, she thought, came from my side of the family.

"It has a programmable laser in the tip." She twisted the bottom and slid out a small panel, not unlike the keyboard of an old-style mobile phone. "The larger capsule is for the programming, not the storage."

Trunks nodded. She knew that he would have learned about capsules in depth, down to the very make up of the specialized chips that converted the energy. A small capsule would hold just as much as a capsule twice its size. Larger capsules were bigger simply for better and more detailed manipulation – to be able to specialize its use after it had been produced. Mass produced capsules could only perform one way – they were designed to basically point and shoot, to use an old phrase, and were what its supporters called 'idiot-proof'. If a capsule was bigger, it had more capabilities. These ones in particular were not made for the general public. In fact, her family had contracts with only a few companies around the world for them, and with them they received a Capsule Corp technician to do on-the-spot programming.

Bulma shook her head and held up the capsule. "The parameters can be set here," she said, pointing at the keypad. "The laser is usually solar-powered – I charged them for a week before we came here."

Trunks gave a small frown she had come to see as his 'thinking' face. "What would you need that much power for?"

Bulma took a deep breath. "These capsules are mainly used in excavation projects," she said steadily, keeping her voice even. "Anthropologists, archaeologists – they can program a grid over their dig site, add the depth, laser it off, convert it to energy and remove the entire block in one piece for safe and easy transferring back to their lab. Same thing for construction sites, moving mass amounts of ground and rubble."

Trunks's eyes were wide with curiosity. "But why would you need a capsule with those capabilities here-" Trunks cut himself off and went perfectly still. His face was even whiter than before, the color of bleached paper, and Bulma waited. Trunks inhaled, exhaled, inhaled – tried to get his breathing under control. After a few minutes, he did, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Still no tears.

Bulma didn't move, but she had to speak. "Our family plots still exists in my time, but it's mostly empty, save for a few of the great-great family members." Trunks didn't move, or acknowledge her words, but she knew he was listening. "We will bring your family home with us, Trunks. You will be able to visit her grave and tend to the plants for her."

Trunks still didn't respond, but she slowly moved forward, running a hand up his arm to let him know her intentions, and then slowly wrapped her child in another hug. His breath hitched, and his hands came up to grip the ends of her tank top, fisting the material in his hands, and then dropping his forehead against her shoulder. "...Thank you," he whispered, so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

"Anything for my baby boy," she replied, just as quietly, hugging him tightly and hoping this last little bomb she'd dropped on him was indeed the last one. The sooner they got him home to rest and recuperate, the sooner he could begin a healing process that was long overdue.

* * *

Vegeta was standing on top of the time machine when they finally came out. Bulma shaded her eyes, looking up at him, and he held up the capsule in his hands. Bulma thanked him silently when instead of tossing it, he flew to the ground and solemnly handed it to her. She just as reverently put it in a special leather pouch and then set the whole thing into a near-indestructable metal box before settling it carefully into the redesigned storage area in the Time Machine.

This Time Machine was nearly identical to what Trunks had used the first time he'd traveled back twenty years to save his father and friends from the Androids who had so easily destroyed his world. In fact, it was from a third alternate time line that Trunks had died in, absorbed by Cell before he'd even known there was a threat. It had been discovered in the past, and kept under wraps in Capsule Corp storage – Bulma allowed no one to work on the restoration except herself and her father.

She had kept the design mostly the same. The only major difference was the cockpit – Bulma had taken the frame apart and expanded it, allowing for four seats (but almost zero elbow room, she'd been chagrined to realize). Trunks dropped slowly into the seat next to his mother, unafraid of being close to her, and Vegeta landed in the back, promptly spreading his arms out to encompass both seats for himself.

Bulma rolled her eyes as she finished the last-minute checks along the outside before climbing the ladder. As she entered the machine and found her own spot, she looked up to give the damaged buildings a final farewell. Around the corner, she could barely make out the beginnings of a deep trench – one that, she knew, extended nearly sixty feet along the back of the Dome, and eight feet deep. Her capsule would have done it with precision. She had no interest in taking a better look, and from a side-glance at her son – who was resolutely staring at the console in front of him – neither did he.

As she settled in, she pressed the button for the hatch, and listened with satisfaction to the sound of perfectly functioning hydraulics as the egg-shaped dome settled into the rubber grooves set into the base of the craft. She flipped the power switch, waited for the engine to come on with a vibrating hum, and then pressed the button for the hover-jets. Reaching for the large handle that would raise them into the air as she pushed, she was stopped by her son's hand reaching it first.

"May I?" he asked, giving her another one of those tiny smiles that Bulma was starting to realize she would never be able to resist. If he taught those looks to little Trunks, she was doomed.

Bulma smiled and sat back, dusting her hands off with a flourish. "Take 'er away, kiddo."

Trunks brought the craft up in a steadily controlled rise. He flicked on the neutron-tank, which began to send a flow of energy around the craft via little shielded tubes. The energy pulses grew in speed and the whole craft began to shimmer in the air.

Trunks gave one last look outside the glass dome, and Bulma reached for his hand, reminding him silently that it was okay. She was there. He wasn't alone. In the back seat, his father snorted.

"Get this thing moving!" he snapped.

Trunks let out a muffled laugh, and punched the flat switch for the hyperdrive. Bulma watched her son until light and color began to streak in wavy lines outside the Time Machine, and relaxed.

They'd be home soon.

* * *

**End**

* * *

I'm kinda pleased with this one. It came to me fairly quickly and wasn't a struggle to get out, like a lot of fics are. I may write more in this storyline, but for all intents and purposes, this is a complete story. Depends a lot on if you want more. :) Let me know?


	2. Coming Home - The Meeting

**Title: **Coming Home – The Meeting

**Author: **Stormy1x2

**Word Count:** 3800

**Summary:** Little Trunks is no fool. He knows there's more to the mysterious teen now living in his house, and he's gonna find out what it is.

**Notes:** This is another complete one-shot in the Coming Home 'verse. I contemplated making it a separate story but then figured it'd be easier to keep track of them if I made them chapters instead. But they are COMPLETE as is. If I add another one-shot here as a chapter, it too will be a complete chapter – as in do not expect 'updates' or 'new chapters' as though this is an on-going story. It's not. It's complete as it is, and any other 'chapters' will be as a bonus, NOT as a continuation. Asking me to continue it makes no sense because it is FINISHED.

* * *

Little Trunks stared at the closed door. He wasn't frowning at the door – not really. He decided he was more or less trying to figure out the secrets behind it. Quizzical! That was the word. Noise came from behind – he twisted his neck to see his mother coming down the hallway, and he kept quiet. She didn't see him, naturally. She passed by the very door he'd been staring at, and paused for a moment. A gentle rap against the white-painted wood. "Mirai?"

The door cracked open. Trunks couldn't see very well from this particular angle, but he could see purple hair, like his. His mother and the Other conversed for a moment in low tones, and then she smiled and walked away. The door slid shut.

Trunks glowered at the door. Now he was moving past quizzical, straight into annoyance.

"Trunks?" A familiar voice cut into his thoughts and he looked up. Actually, he looked down. Goten was standing beneath him, peering up to where Trunks was sitting cross-legged on the ceiling."What are you doing up there?"

"Trying to figure out what's going on," Trunks grumbled, and let himself fall in a loose tumble into a crouch on the floor.

Goten stared at him, and then at the door. "Whaddaya mean?"

Trunks pointed at the door. "Mom said my older brother is going to live with us," he said flatly.

Goten looked excited. "Wow, an older brother? Like Gohan? What's his name, Trunks?"

Trunks scowled. "Trunks."

"Huh?" Goten blinked wide eyes in confusion.

"His name is Trunks," Trunks repeated. "That's what I heard dad say. But then mom said his name was Mirai."

"Why does he have the same name as you?" Goten asked.

"Maybe because his hair is the same color as mine!" Trunks snapped. "I don't know. Yet."

Goten still looked confused, but that wasn't anything new. Trunks was well aware that his best friend in the world was at his level when it came to fighting, but when it came to book smarts, well, Trunks had had to learn to break things down to Goten's level if he wanted the other boy to understand. His mom had said that would be the case with most people in the world. She called it the curse of the Briefs family.

Trunks had decided long ago that explaining things to Goten was okay, but the rest of the world could catch up or get left behind. His mom had laughed at him and said he'd learn one day. Whatever. He refocused his gaze on the door.

"He's in there?" Goten whispered loudly, tip-toeing past Trunks to put his ear against the door. "Is he, Trunks?"

"He's in there," Trunks confirmed.

Goten looked at him and then at the door. Then he did it again. "Umm..."

"What?" Trunks snapped.

Goten shrugged. "I wanna meet him."

Trunks felt his scowl growing. Why did everyone want to meet this guy? And how the hell was he supposed to be an older brother? Trunks wasn't stupid. He knew how babies were born, and he knew that he was the first-born son of the Prince of all Saiyajins. His father proclaimed it enough times to his mother whenever he tried to argue his case that Goten and all members of the family Son should be banned from the compound.

His mother had tried to explain that someone special would be coming to live with them, and then she and his dad had disappeared for three hours in the funny yellow airplane she'd been restoring in the storage garage. That had been three days ago. His so-called 'older brother' had spent two days living in his mother's old underground lab before his mom showed him the bedroom that would be his in the main house.

Trunks had seen this 'older brother' maybe three times, no more than a minute each time. The first time he saw this Mirai, he was moving things around in the lab. Trunks had contented himself with peering through the window until his mom called him away and told him to give Mirai some time. Trunks wrinkled his nose. Time for what, exactly?

The second time had been when Goten and his father came over the next day. Trunks had watched them approach the 'Other' to talk and had wound up flying off. When he and Goten had tried to follow, his father had yanked them back and put them through a tough workout in the gravity room.

The third time had been that morning. Trunks had gotten up super-early and had seen his father having breakfast with Mirai. Trunks had watched, wondering if Mirai actually had any Saiyajin blood in him due to the fact that he had less on his plate then his grandpa took, and ate like a bird. Goku had teleported in and then out again with all three of them – off to do some 'special training', his mom told him.

Trunks was tired of being kept in the dark. If this person, this 'Mirai', was supposed to be his older brother, it was high time he started acting like it. Trunks took a deep breath and then strode over to the door. Balling his hand up into a fist, he pounded on the door, three times.

There was no response. Trunks glared at the door and then yelled, "If you don't open the door, I can break it open!"

Goten 'eeped' behind him.

The handle started turning and Trunks aimed his glare higher up. The door opened slowly and he watched as a young man with the same color hair as him peered down at the two of them. "H-hello..."

Trunks pointed up at him. "What kind of older brother are you?" he fumed. "Gohan doesn't hide from Goten. Are you afraid of me or what?"

The teenager blinked, appearing confused. Then a small smile appeared on his face. "Maybe."

"You should be," Trunks informed him, folding his arms. "Both me and Goten here-" Goten gave a shy wave. "- can go Super Saiyajin and we can fuse into Gotenks and kick your butt."

"That sounds impressive," the teenager commented, and opened the door a bit wider. "I can tell you're both very strong."

Trunks nodded, glad he was finally getting the respect he deserved. "So when are you gonna come out?"

Mirai stared at him. "...What?"

Trunks waved at the room. "You've been hiding from me for three days," he stated. "I know you can't be afraid of me 'cause I saw you with Dad and Goku and they're way stronger then I am, so you must be hiding for a different reason."

From behind Trunks, Goten raised his hand, like they were at school. Trunks watched Mirai bite back a laugh before motioning to the youngster. "Umm, Mirai? Are you really Trunks's older brother?"

It was interesting. Trunks had heard of the phrase 'multiple expressions crossed his face' but had never actually seen it in action until now. The teenager's hand was gripping the door handle rather hard too. Much more pressure than that and it was gonna snap off. "So they've decided to go with that then..."

Trunks blinked and turned his attention from the shaking handle to the teenager. "So tell me how this works, because I know for a fact I'm the first born son of the Saiyajins. How are you my older brother?"

The teenager mouthed the words 'first born son' and a small laugh escaped him. No, that was a giggle, Trunks was certain of it. The teenager was smiling! It was about time. Trunks tilted his head, waiting for an answer. "What did your mother tell you?" the teenager asked.

No fair turning it back on him, but fine. Trunks would play along. "Mom said that you belong to another dimension where the world was gonna blow up and so she and dad took the time machine to go and get you and now you're going to live here."

Goten gripped his head in his hands. "This is so confusing," he moaned.

Mirai was smiling with his mouth but Trunks was convinced his eyes weren't. This was a tricky guy, he decided, and he leveled a glare at him. "You won't fool me," he warned him.

"Fool you?"

Trunks nodded. "Something's not right," he growled. "You've got the same hair as me but you're too old to be a clone. Dad wouldn't let you in the house if you were dangerous, and mom wants me to be nice to you which means she really likes you. You're not an enemy but you're tricky." He scowled and folded his arms, flicking the tail end of his orange belt. "All of you are hiding something from me and I am going to find out what it is."

Goten stopped pulling his hair by the roots and peeked upwards, nodding frantically. "He will, you know," he chirped, hopping back to stand beside his best friend. "Trunks is really smart and he'll figure out what you're up to."

Trunks grinned at Goten for the support and then turned back to Mirai. Who was watching them. And looked like he was about to cry. Trunks flailed mentally, his blue eyes widening in shock.

"Is this what I'd be like if I'd had a normal childhood?" the teen murmured faintly, still smiling, but his eyes had that shimmery thing happening that mom got when Trunks did something for her without being asked. "If I'd had a friend my age?"

"You never had a friend your age before?" Goten asked, looking horrified at the thought. He moved forward and gently tugged on the teens pant leg. "Neh, neh?"

Mirai blinked suddenly and looked down and shook his head. "Yes?" he asked gently. Trunks approved. If he was rude to Goten, he'd had to kill him, and his mother would _never_ give him in an upgrade in his allowance then.

Goten tilted his head up at the young man. "How old are you?"

"E-eighteen."

"My brother Gohan is sixteen!" Goten shouted happily. "You can be friends with him!"

Trunks watched the whole thing play out and he could pinpoint the exact moment when the teenager in front of him had a heart attack – or his heart broke or something. His face went white – which was actually kinda neat until he saw the look in Mirai's eyes as he gazed at Goten. Trunks didn't know how to describe it. All he knew was that the minute he saw Mirai's eyes, he felt like crying, and clutching Goten to him for dear life.

Mirai choked out something – an excuse, a goodbye – and gently shut the door. Trunks could feel his ki though, and realized that Mirai wasn't moving away. He was sitting in front of the door, like he was trying to prevent them from coming in. Which was silly because if Trunks wanted to, he could push the door open, Mirai included, with no trouble at all-

His head tilted to the side. Wheels began churning in his head as he belatedly took in every word the other had said and applied it to the knowledge he had received from his mom and dad; as well as the knowledge he'd gained from years of listening to adults that treated him as stupidly as they did Goku or Goten, forgetting that under Trunks's mop of fluffy purple hair was a mind that was every bit as brilliant as the mind before it in the Briefs lineage. Sometimes he was a bit slow on the uptake – he blamed that on years with Goten shortening his attention span. But now he was awake and processing.

Goten saw what he'd always referred to as his 'thinking face', and was mercifully silent, automatically sticking a thumb in his mouth to keep himself from interrupting whatever through process was going on in Trunks's head.

After a few minutes, Trunks narrowed his eyes at the door. "Goten," he said softly. "Either that guy is my clone from the other dimension, older thanks to the Time Machine, or he's me from the future."

Goten's eyes widened. "Wow..." was the first thing he said. The second: "Is it lunchtime yet?"

Trunks rolled his eyes and let his friend drag him down the hallway. After eating, Goten would be more interested in what he'd discovered, but until then, the concept would be overpowered by mental images of bowls of ramen, legs of lamb and platters of food up to the sky. He could verify this – he'd been in Goten's head so often thanks to fusion, he knew exactly what to expect from his partner in crime. Once he'd satisfied the roaring demon that was his stomach, he'd be able to focus on what Trunks said. Then they'd get some answers.

* * *

Goten had gone home almost an hour ago, but Trunks was still deep in contemplation, staring so hard at the door he figured eventually little burnt holes were gonna appear. He and Goten figured with all their powers, laser vision wasn't out of the realm of possibility and they practiced at every given opportunity. Like this. He stared even harder.

"It's not going to work."

Trunks blinked and looked over his shoulder. His mother was coming up the stairs, smiling at him. "What won't work?"

His mother laughed and tapped her lip thoughtfully, before pointing her index finger at him in that trigger-happy way she always did when she figured something out. It was most vexing. "You do not have laser eyes, child. Be content with super strength and the powers of flight."

Trunks huffed and tossed his purple head. "Give me time," he muttered. The impossible was something his family circumvented all the time.

"Only if you give him some," she said, scruffing his hair and nodding at the door he was trying to implode with his brain.

"He's a scaredy-cat," Trunks said. "He's hiding in there."

His mother stopped and sighed, before turning and crouching in front of him. "You're right."

"I am?" Trunks blinked. He was often right when it came to everyone else, but his mother was even smarter than him and it was hard to trick her up. "How? Why?"

She sighed and sat down on the floor with him, angling around to lean against the wall. She opened her arms, and reluctantly – _very reluctantly_ – Trunks crawled over and allowed her to snuggle him against her. "You're a smart little kidlet," she said, her breath ruffling his hair. "So I'm gonna explain this to you once, and then you're going to leave the poor guy alone until he decides to come out. Got it?"

Trunks nodded silently.

"Behind that door is a young man who has seen more fighting, more pain, and more death than anyone else on this planet, save for maybe your father," she said in a calm, no-nonsense tone. She was a blunt speaker, and she never believed in speaking down to Trunks like he couldn't understand her. Her arms tightened around Trunks though. "He has lost everything. His home, his family, his entire world. He was completely and utterly alone when your father and I found him, surrounded by the bodies of a million dead people." Her breath hitched, but then she continued smoothly. "It took some convincing for him to agree to come here, instead of just letting himself die there alone."

Trunks thought about that for a few minutes, not even realizing how tightly he was gripping his mom's t-shirt until he heard a ripping noise. He looked down and saw he'd torn the hem off a part of it. "Sorry."

"Forget it," she said. She was still waiting for him to gather his thoughts, maybe ask her a question. And he he did have questions. But only one pressing one.

"He's me, isn't he?" His mother made a choked noise and buried her face in the top of his head. Trunks had his answer. They sat there for a few minutes while Trunks's brain slotted that information into the relevant holes in his brain. Then Trunks breathed out. "Am I gonna be that way?"

"No." His mother spoke so swiftly he almost didn't finish speaking his full sentence. "He's from a world that never had a chance. A world that was destroyed after Goku and your father and all our other friends were killed. The same issues that created that horrible place have already been neutralized here. While there are always chances for bad things to happen in any future, that particular one will never become a reality ever again."

Trunks nodded, contemplating that for a while. His mother was rocking him back and forth, gently, slowly, like she hadn't done since he was a toddler. He found he didn't mind so much, not while they were talking about such terrible things. It still didn't seem quite real to him, but he couldn't deny the reality of the teenager behind the door. _That _made it all too real. "I wanted to to die?"

His mom breathed quietly for a few minutes. Then she turned him around so they could look eye to eye. "Let's talk logic for a moment, kiddo," she said quietly, in her 'I-am-your-teacher' voice she used when homeschooling him on the various subjects he needed to pass for the government to be happy. "How can he be you?"

"You said he came from a different world and you confirmed he was me when I asked," Trunks answered promptly.

His mother nodded slowly, not bothering to deny it. She never treated him as stupid. She knew he wasn't. "Can two of you be on a single plane of existence?"

Trunks frowned. "Not usually, no." All the comic books and magic stories he'd ever read would speak of terrible things happening if people ran into their 'doubles' whenever time travel was involved. And wasn't changing the past impossible anyway? All you did was change the outcome of another variant future. The past was immutable.

"So then, is he you?"

Trunks worked through his thoughts. "He's a variant me," he said thoughtfully. "Like a singular possibility out of millions. Because the future isn't set in stone."

His mother nodded. "Do you want to die?" she then asked, and Trunks inhaled sharply.

"No!" he snapped. "I'm happy. I have you, and dad, and Goten, and my family, and the Z fighters and my powers and everything!"

"So, who's he then?" his mother asked softly, pointing at the door.

Trunks thought about it some more. Thought about everything his mother said, thought about how sad the teenager must be, how alone he had to have been feeling. He was surprised to feel sadness bubbling up in his chest. He wasn't going to cry – he was a fighter like his father, and Saiyajins didn't cry for Kami's sake – but he definitely felt bad for the guy. He looked at his mother and saw that she was crying. Well, her eyes were watery. They hadn't fallen yet. Trunks was glad of that – he never knew what to do when his mother cried. He only ever knew that he wanted her to stop and he'd do whatever it took. "He needs help," Trunks said softly.

His mother nodded. "That he does, child of mine," she said gently. "What else?"

Trunks thought even harder, racing through half-formed philosophical thoughts and facts his mother had illuminated. "He_ was _me," he said, stressing the past tense.

His mother nodded. "Anything else?"

"He's my brother," Trunks finished sharply, coming to the conclusion swiftly. "He's what I could have been, and thanks to him, and you, and dad, I have a chance to be something else. I don't have to be so sad. Which means he, as me, doesn't have to exist anymore." He pondered that thought for a moment. "He's here though, so he has to be something. But he can be something else. Anything else. So I want him to be my brother."

"Not bad, baby," his mother said, smiling. "That's it?"

Trunks nodded slowly. "I'm his little brother now," he said, liking the idea the more he ran through it in his head. "He needs a reminder that everything's changed, right? I'm right here. I'm like a living reminder that I am going to be something completely different."

"Thanks to him, in part," his mother said.

Trunks nodded. "I should say thank you," he decided abruptly, and stood up out of his mother's embrace. He turned and rapped on the door smartly. A moment later it opened, and little Trunks stared up into the sad eyes of a teenager who had seen too many bad things in his life. Well, that was about to change as far as he was concerned. He held out his hand.

The teen stared at him for a moment, and then looked down at the outstretched hand. "Um..."

"I'm your little brother, Trunks," Trunks declared, watching the teen closely for his reaction. "We're too different now. You're not me, and I'm not you. Not anymore. So we can be brothers instead. Okay?"

The teenager stared at the hand for a moment, and then looked past Trunks to where his – their – mother was sitting on the floor, laughing and crying at the same time. "Uh... okay. Yes." He awkwardly shook Trunks's hand. "I'm Mirai." He swallowed hard. "Your older brother."

"Hi, Mirai!" Trunks grinned, and launched himself at the teen the way he'd often seen Goten throw himself at Gohan. The teen caught him automatically and Trunks wrapped his legs around the teens waist to keep himself in the air. He rested an elbow on Mirai's shoulder and propped his head up. "So we got a lot of catching up to do. And I know you're kinda sad right now. But you'll get better a lot faster with my help."

The teenager choked out a sound – a laugh, Trunks realized with relief a moment later. "I'm sure I will too," he said.

Trunks snuggled close – but only for a second. "Thank you," he said softly, feeling perfectly certain his brother would understand what he was thanking him for.

'My sincere pleasure," the teen responded, just as softly, and with a nuzzle of Trunks's head that felt like what Gohan sometimes did to him and Goten and felt just as good, just as safe and protective.

His mother stood up and wrapped her arms around them both, and Trunks smiled, absolutely delighted with this turn of events. He'd always wanted a brother like Gohan, and now he had one. There was just one thing. He turned to his mother and waved a finger at her. She cocked her head, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Do NOT make him a Saiya-Man suit," Trunks said sternly. "The sons of the Prince of all Saiyajins do not wear Saiya-Man suits."

His mother burst into laughter. Mirai looked completely confused.

Trunks smiled in satisfaction.

* * *

**End**

* * *

This is another complete one-shot. As in, it is finished. If Coming Home has more stories in its future, they will be put here as additional chapters, but asking for a new chapter makes no sense because it is FINISHED. New one-shots are a vague possibility but now that this is out of my system, I want to get back to IronPika.

Still, as always, constructive criticism is always appreciated and respected. And reviews are very inspiring, so if you want to see more in this 'verse, let me know how you felt about this little one-shot. In fact, this one-shot is dedicated to the 6 reviewers who saw the first installment and wrote such encouraging words I had no choice but to try another story in this world. Thank you very much for the encouragement.


	3. Coming Home - The Fast

**Title: **Coming Home – The Fast

**Author:** Stormy1x2

**Word Count:** 2470

**Summary:** Trunks has a few problems, due to his 'other life'. Vegeta isn't stupid, and frankly, neither is his mate. They'll find a solution for this one first before they tackle the rest.

* * *

**The Fast**

* * *

Vegeta watched silently out of the corner of his eye as they all ate dinner. His youngest son was inhaling his food in between bursts of rapid-fire chatter directed at both his elder counterpart and his mother. Bits of food sprayed out with every other word, his hand gestures flinging bits of his meal across the table. All was normal there. It was Mirai's eating habits – the ones he had been observing since the brat's arrival - that were worrisome.

Mirai ate far slower than Trunks or himself. He also ate human-sized portions. Probably still more servings than a typical human could ingest without digestive discomfort, but much less than what a proper Saiyajin needed to maintain and increase power.

Mirai had barely finished his third portion that evening before he was standing up and insisting on helping his grandmother clear the table. Among all the faults Vegeta could and would point out about his offspring, there was absolutely no problem with his manners and bearing. It seemed to come naturally to him – a royal, regal bearing that hadn't been trained into him, yet existed anyway. Vegeta would not lower himself to domestic duties, but he expected his sons to respect their elders – even if said elders couldn't back their words up with physical threats of any kind. Little Trunks would moan and sigh but eventually give in – lest he lose access to his rather generous allowance portioned out by his mother who gave him far more than she should. The brat was getting spoiled.

On the other hand, Mirai never needed to be threatened to help his grandparents or his mother. He'd been bereft of all family members save but for his mother, and he adored spending time with them now that he had the opportunity. He eagerly helped clear and set the table, fed the numerous creatures Bulma's father kept in the menagerie dome, and would spend hours talking science with his mother in that soft-spoken voice that seemed at times to ache with loneliness.

Vegeta shook his head off that tangent and scowled at the portions of food Mirai did not eat. It certainly would not go to waste – in the unlikely event that neither he nor Trunks could finish the remainder, the leftovers would serve as an adequate midnight snack. That was not the problem.

He'd seen this problem before. His father had been rigorous in his son's training as the future king of their planet back before Frieza had taken it over. King Vegeta had been a strict, domineering man but his madness had definite methods to it. One of his lessons had been about the value and power of the Saiyajin appetite and metabolism. Their bodies burned so many calories both during training and after it, they needed constant refueling. This could sometimes be a problem, especially when they landed on and purged planets that did not provide enough resources for the soldiers to properly feed.

As the most powerful race in the galaxy, there were not many alien lifeforms that could actually harm a Saiyajin. Nor did they suffer from sickness and ailments common to other species. The re-gen tanks had been designed and were mostly used for three reasons - to provide quick healing to those who trained to the point of death, to heal subordinates beaten by a superior, and to heal a Saiyajin who suffered from the Fast.

The Fast could be crippling for some warriors. Still, Saiyajins were adaptable and their systems were able to slow down to allow for the lack of food - for a short time. Vegeta's eyes narrowed. Mirai had come from a war-torn world. Food had likely been scarce, especially with two Androids destroying over eighty percent of the major cities on Chikkyu over a period of twenty years. Mirai hated to speak of his childhood, but he had given Vegeta enough details that he could put together a rough overview. He concluded, while watching Mirai smile at his grandmother and gently but firmly take the pile of dishes out of her hands, that Mirai had likely suffered from the Fast his entire life.

That was also likely why Mirai hadn't been able to reach Super Saiyajin status until Gohan had died. Vegeta's eyes flicked to his youngest son who was gnawing on the end heel of an entire french loaf he'd claimed for himself.

Little Trunks had never been denied the bare essentials, while Mirai had likely not been given the right nutrients and vitamins in his diet needed to sustain Saiyajin growth right from birth. That Mirai was as powerful as he was spoke volumes about his dedication to his training, and the strength of his blood heritage. Technically, if Vegeta's musing were correct – and they likely were, as he was never wrong – the boy shouldn't even be able power up much more than the moron Bulma had dated, or the bald-headed idiot that idolized Kakkorrot. Perhaps the Namek's level, but that would be pushing it. Definitely not his level, nor Kakkorott's, and yet... Vegeta stifled a growl.

Kakkorrott. The third-class idiot with mannerisms and beliefs so far off from the standard Saiyajin ideals it was ridiculous. Any species of Chikkyu's native fauna were more Saiyajin than that brain damaged moron. Nature routinely eliminated the weak links – Kakkorrot saved them and called them 'friends'. This gave strength to an argument Vegeta had been vehemently denying ever since he'd crash landed on Chikkyu and met the walking garbage disposal:

That a Saiyajin's heart, his love, his sacrifice for those he cared about – these were the things that were required to break through to the true power of a Super Saiyajin. The idea that his home world and race could have dominated the entire universe without a sweat if they'd only opened up their hearts and let love shine in as that idiotic song claimed, was a horrifying and nauseating contemplation. Vegeta shuddered at the very thought.

Still, it did explain Mirai's ability to attain Super Saiyajin status despite the crippling effects of the Fast. Mirai's heart was soft. He cared deeply for people, even those he'd never met, and loved as fiercely as any warrior would fight. To the death, and beyond.

This reminded Vegeta of his future son's horror of hurting anyone, which brought up another issue he had been contemplating for the past two days – ever since he'd found his son at the epicenter of a blast of considerable size in the shopping facility Bulma claimed was named the Galaxy Mall. No one had been hurt in the blast. Somehow, everyone had been moved prior to the explosion. Bulma didn't even see what happened, it had all gone by so quickly.

Vegeta recalled speaking to Mirai about the strange act they had caught him engaging in before they'd demanded him to return to his... well, technically it was his home at the time, though it was not worthy of being called such a thing. They'd needed to wait for him to recover before they could travel to the other, proper time line with him, and it had taken longer than he'd anticipated. His son, his warrior, had been cleansing cities, one by one, of the bodies of the dead. He used his ki in such a manner that it replicated telekinisis, and then vaporized them with a highly concentrated ki blast. He must have used the same move to relocate innocent bystanders before he could accidentally destroy them. Vegeta had meant to speak to his son about the technique but had decided ultimately to wait.

If he cracked his son's fragile mind, his wife would kill him.

Obviously Mirai had utilized the same technique to transfer the innocent shoppers in the Galaxy Mall parking lot before he lost his control. The loss of control was something else. Certainly it was not a side-effect of the Fast; the Fast was draining, depleting life from its host like an energy vampire. It didn't build up and explode with the force of a thousand pounds of C-4. Which was another point to consider – the power he felt should have had a much higher blast radius than what was displayed in the rubble he'd floated over.

Vegeta felt a telltale twitch at his temple as he tried to summarize his thoughts while snapping through a chicken bone with his teeth, sucking the marrow out with a relish. Mirai's body was in the grips of a lifelong Fast. Said Fast had not reduced his ability to power up like it had with generations of Saiyajins before him because he had a human heart like the Chikkyu-loving idiot Kakkorrot, and love was apparently a key component in building Super Saiyajins.

Mirai also had an ability to perform levitation on specific objects – perhaps based on mass? Density? - and the mental wherewithal to transport them away from himself, signifying a drastically opposite issue of control. If he could move people away, why could he not control himself from blowing up? Lastly, the blast he'd generated should have resulted in the entire plaza being vaporized into a thousand foot crater but it hadn't. The trees surrounding the blast zone had retained their leaves. No one's clothes were singed or their hair, even the tiniest bit windswept. A ki shield? At the same time?

What his conclusions were telling him was that he had a son with near-miraculously superb control and at the same time, almost none at all. A Fast-induced weakling with powerhouse levels. The vein in his forehead twitched again. The very inconsistencies of his logical reasoning were infuriating. Coming up with a training regime for this was going to give him a migraine, he just knew it.

At the very least, he would need to speak to his mate about adding some sort of supplement to the brat's diet. If she could design a Time Machine, then she could certainly devise a way to ensure her child didn't wither away from a lack of calories. His mate's progenitor had numerous bottles containing capsules that claimed to provide the necessities of life within them. Apparently they were easy to purchase. Which was another strange thing about the planet he'd learned to call home. He snorted – earthlings were the only species he'd ever come across that apparently needed to provide additional nutrition via pills and medications instead of through a proper diet.

It was exasperating. Don't even get him started on the weight-loss schemes his mate occasionally took part in. If the woman wanted to drink nothing but the liquid remains of plant life for a month, he was not going to be blamed when she got dizzy from a lack of nutrients and fell headfirst into the swimming pool. Again.

He watched as Mirai came back into the room to clear more dishes from the table. Bulma's mother, the yellow-haired oddity known to the house as 'Mama', was giggling and pushing Mirai into the living room, telling him to sit down and relax while she brought out dessert. Vegeta would give the woman credit for be able to do one thing competently: she did know how to cook. Apparently a cooking gene was not something that was able to be passed down to their offspring; never was such a thing more evident than when Bulma attempted to do... _something_... in the kitchen.

Mirai smiled that idiotic 'I'm so happy to be around people I'll do whatever you ask of me' expression and wandered into the living room. Vegeta glared at the amount of food still sitting on the table, calculating exactly what the brat had ingested and how much more he would need if they were ever going to turn the Fast around. He was comparing the calories to a chart he'd once had to memorize for his father when Bulma tapped him on the shoulder.

"What, woman?" he snapped, losing the numbers.

She stared at him in that 'watch it buster' way she had adopted as her primary mode of addressing him since the birth of their spawn – the one that was actually from this time line – and raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong, your highness?" She angled her chin at the food left on the table. "I'm guessing it has something to do with the fact that your son seems to eat less than I do at times."

This was a reminder of why he agreed to marry the woman. She was the only one on this planet with an intellect that matched his _and _could stand up for herself. He tossed another bun into his mouth and gave a short nod.

"Should I be worried?" He shrugged. "Is Mirai in danger?" He shrugged again. "If I threaten to design a buster rifle and shoot it up your ass, will you answer me with your words?" Before he could shrug again, she jabbed her pointer finger at his nose. "Keeping in mind before you answer that, I am the one woman on this planet that can actually back that threat up."

Yes, there was the proof he'd chosen well. The fact that she had chosen him was something he had refused to acknowledge out loud and this move had served their marriage well. He rolled his eyes at her and stood up. "We will speak of this later," he said, still gazing past her to where his eldest son was accepting a piece of cake from 'Mama'. He paused. "It will be somewhat... difficult to explain."

It was a testimony to his ability to pick the right mate when the woman looked at him, looked at the table, and then looked at Mirai and said, "Well, it's been a while since I delved into chemistry but I'm sure I can cobble together some kind of supplement for Saiyajins."

Vegeta gave a short nod and then barked at the child still sitting at the table, chewing on a ham that was bigger than his head, "To the gravity room!" Little Trunks dropped the ham, gave his hands and face a cursory wipe with a napkin and then bolted out of the dining room. In the living room, Mirai stood up and looked over. "Don't think you get to escape this."

Mirai smiled that ever-patient smile and nodded. Vegeta huffed and strode out of the room, feeling his son's ki fall in step behind him.

It would be difficult, training the brat without killing him due to insufficient caloric intake, but he was the Prince of all Saiyajins, and he would damn well figure it out. Between the woman and himself, they would get the elder brat back on track to a healthy weight level and then he would finally see some improvement in his strength and durability.

Anything less was unacceptable.

* * *

**End**

* * *

What did you think? And what problem should I tackle next?


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